


The Way We Get By

by softlyforgotten



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-22
Updated: 2009-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyforgotten/pseuds/softlyforgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which domesticity does not always equal bliss. Except when it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way We Get By

Contrary to the belief of most gossip or music magazines, nearly _all_ talk shows and The Almighty Internet, there is no blow up or dramatic fight or horrible, drunken incident when My Chemical Romance breaks up. Instead, Gerard looks up one afternoon after putting his make-up and says, “Jesus, I’m exhausted.”

“Me too,” Ray says, without looking up. “I’m _always_ tired.”

“Me too,” Gerard says, and then Ray does look up. They smile kind of sadly at each other, and Gerard gets up and gives Ray a hug before he goes to call the rest of the guys in.

 

 

(That’s not to say, though, that it ends like that, because it’s _them_ , so they have to do a very large, very theatrical last tour. Feather boas are only the beginning; Mikey doesn’t like talking about some aspects of it. There are rumours about a game of Gay Chicken with Fall Out Boy that took up most of the tour, conclusively won by My Chem, and Bob has to play one show with pink streaks in his hair (Frank plays the same show covered in bruises, and giggling). The last show is the biggest ever; Gerard sits on the edge of the stage and swings his legs over it, holds out a hand and reaches as far into the crowd as he can, until he’s holding some girl’s hand – with a bunch of other people grabbing for a bit of skin – and sings _Vampires Will Never Hurt You_ with all his heart. Frank has to hide behind the drum riser so he can sniffle into Bob’s leg; Mikey spends most of the show alternately glaring and beaming at Gerard; Ray still plays like a Guitar God, because some things don’t change.

It’s a good tour.)

 

Mikey’s back in New Jersey with Alicia before any of them have time to blink after the final show; Frank drifts back that way, too, but talks about maybe going and visiting some friends in Chicago, Boston, something. The tour wasn’t really long enough for Frank, Gerard knows. Ray and Bob move back to Jersey, too, despite Bob’s grumblings about Ray always getting what he wants, and they spend three weeks holed up in the house they share, barely answering phones. When they come out, Bob’s got a constant, withheld grin, and Ray’s making offhand, ambiguous remarks about recording studios. It’s no wonder, Gerard informs them grumpily when he flies down to pick up the last of his stuff from his mom’s house, that people keep thinking they’re secret boyfriends. Bob makes a face; Ray laughs as quick and high-pitched as he ever did.

Gerard goes back to his apartment in Portland, the one he and Lyn-Z first bought together on a whim (the first night, he calls her up, asks about her upcoming tours and lies back on his bed, grins stupidly; he’s not in love with her anymore, but that doesn’t stop him from loving her stupidly and whole-heartedly, probably for the rest of his life). But that was before three years of touring alone wore them down, before Lyn-Z curled up next to him in bed and cried all night, and then started packing. The apartment is cold, but not too dusty, and the colours are still bright, not yet faded. Gerard turns the heater on and shoves his suitcase in the corner of the room. He’ll unpack soon.

Then he makes his bed as best he can (it’s weird, running back and forth from side to side of the double; he’s kinda used to bunks), and sleeps for a week.

 

It’s winter in Portland, freezing, and there’s no snow but there’s ice on the streets some days, which Gerard likes. He goes out in Mikey’s grey coat which he kind of forgot to give back at the end of tour, and Frank’s skeleton gloves, and he thinks the socks he’s wearing might be Bob’s just because Gerard hasn’t ever owned socks of his own, but he’s not sure. The band (is he even allowed to call them that anymore? – and no, Gerard thinks, no matter what else happens, they’ll always be the band) is a kind of tight knot in the pit of his stomach, and he misses them both more and less than he thought he would. Nevertheless, he doesn’t miss the idea of playing anymore that much, and he skips past the live tracks of them that he’d put on his iPod in a slightly egotistical moment.

He goes down to the artsy market he saw a flyer for when he was out grocery shopping the other day, and finds a really good art supply store next to it, picks out new paints and canvases. At the market, he lingers over a stall of paintings and odd, metallic sculptures, and ends up picking out a tiny copper one of a person pulling their shirt open so you can see their heart shattering inside them. It’s meticulous and tiny and brilliant, and it kind of reminds Gerard of Frank, in that there’s no sense of sadness but only release and joy and you don’t think for a second that the sculpture’s heart is broken. He buys it and puts the brown paper package in his pocket, wonders whether to send it on to Frank or keep it himself, and then he gets distracted by the scarves at the next stall (he buys two bobbly pink ones, one for Alicia and one for him).

When he gets home, he calls Mikey. “You sad?” he asks by way of greeting, yawning a little into the speaker.

“No,” Mikey tells him, and he doesn’t sound it, either. Besides, Gerard knows Mikey isn’t actually capable of lying to him. “Ray and Bob are here. We’re making cupcakes.”

“Really?”

“Well,” Mikey amends, sounding a little crestfallen, “Ray and Bob and Alicia are making cupcakes. I’m sitting on the table and watching, because Alicia says she wants to eat them, and she can’t if they’re burnt.”

“Okay,” Gerard grins, “Put Ray on.”

There’s a shuffle of feet, and Gerard hears Ray’s voice rising and falling unevenly in the background. When he gets on, his voice is somewhat confused when he says, “Gee? Is something wrong?”

“We did the right thing, didn’t we?” Gerard asks. “With the band?”

“Hey,” Ray’s voice softens. “Yeah, sure we did. I think so, anyway. Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, surprising himself only a little, “Yeah, I do.”

 

“Hi!” Frank’s answering machine greets Gerard. “You’ve reached Frank! I’m not here right now, but if you leave a message I’ll call you back when I’m not doing interesting things anymore!”

“Frankie, it’s me,” Gerard says. “You must be busy, I barely ever hear from you anymore.” This is a lie. Gerard sent Frank a text two days ago saying _I’m bored and lonely :(_ even though he wasn’t, really, and Frank spent the next fourteen hours narrating everything he did via SMS – _im trying to decide what to wear now_ , _im emailing whatshisface back about the thing now_ , _right now im on my way to piss its gonna be a party you should be here_. The last one said, simply, _going to pass out on you now come visit me sometime_.

Gerard heaves a mournful sigh, and then ruins it by giggling a little bit. “Anyway,” he says, “Call me back, or something. You doing okay?”

Three hours later, his phone beeps and tells him _im fine and ur a liar_. Frank does not call.

 

Gerard bakes cupcakes. He sends off a request for a recipe to Alicia, and she replies promptly with the recipe and _a nice xmas present would be a video of you making them_ , which Gerard dutifully ignores besides his basic and instinctive response of flipping off the screen. He has to go out and buys the ingredients because it turns out he has none of them.

He gets flour all over his face (and wow, movies _so do not_ exaggerate that, Gerard is pretty impressed with himself) and he burns the first lot because he gets distracted by a new web comic that Mikey sent him the link too, but his second batch is pretty good. Gerard finishes them off with green icing (which was supposed to be blue, but whatever, green is much cooler) and takes triumphant photos before he eats them.

All of them, sadly, because Gerard’s pretty sure you can’t post cakes in the mail, and he doesn’t really know anyone in Portland well enough to say “hi, come eat the cupcakes I made with me!” He eats them all by himself, and then he feels sick, and then he leaves a cryptic, bitchy message on Frank’s voicemail about friends not helping out when they’re needed and having to toil through on your own through innumerable trials and how the world was only made for suffering.

Frank texts back half an hour later _boo hoo check your mail_ and there’s nothing there, but the next morning the postman delivers the limited edition Batman comics (some of the first issues!) that Gerard’s been looking for since forever, and he grudgingly forgives Frank.

 

In the next week, Gerard finds a box of books that Lyn-Z left and rips through them, kind of forgetting to eat much or get any fresh air. Lyn-Z reads eclectically, and there’s Proust mixed in there with Gorky and a history of the Crusades, and a memoir of Gandhi, and some Harold Pinter and DH Lawrence, and Gerard reads them all. Some he likes and some he doesn’t, but he sends a triumphant photo in shady lighting of his pile of ‘books read’ to Lyn-Z, sprawls back smugly on his sofa, and promptly falls asleep.

He wakes up to his phone vibrating against his cheek, and after a couple of unsuccessful tries he answers and says something through the haze of sleep that he hopes sounds like a greeting.

“Hi,” a very amused Lyn-Z says, “You have too much time on your hands, Gee. What are you doing?”

“I _was_ sleeping,” Gerard grumbles, and then yawns loudly to prove it.

“I think maybe you should go do something,” Lyn-Z tells him. “Go to a show. Go see a movie. Go fly a kite, dude.”

“There’s no one to do anything with,” Gerard sighs, and then adds, plaintively, “And Frank’s not answering his phone.”

Lyn-Z giggles for about five minutes, ignoring Gerard’s complaints, and then she says, “Okay, go back to sleep, byyye!” and hangs up.

I have sucky friends, Gerard thinks, and falls asleep again.

 

Gerard goes down to Powell's and spends a few hours browsing in the comics section, trying to remember whether Mikey already has the whole Sandman collection and whether that would be a pretty boring birthday present for him anyway. It’s nine months until Mikey’s birthday, but Gerard figures it can’t hurt to be prepared.

Frank will probably know, he thinks brightly, and hits four on speed dial. The phone trills in his ear and he shifts from foot to foot, scowl darkening, until—

“Hi,” Frank’s answering machine chirps, “You’ve reached—”

Gerard hangs up.

 

One night, Gerard has this crazy dream, full of bright colours and odd shades of light, and the dull thrum of rhythm guitar underneath it. He wakes up and spends the day painting in his pyjamas and his winter coat, and two pairs of Bob’s socks (December in Portland is fucking cold, man), huge landscapes in red and blue, and the stars somehow shining through even though Gerard’s fairly sure it’s daylight.

And in the center, his back to the painting but his stance unmistakable, Frank is trudging down a long, straight road, hands in the pockets of Gerard’s coat.

 

Gerard calls and Mikey puts him on speakerphone (the dork) and then immediately says, “Shush, we’re watching _50 First Dates_.”

“Drew Barrymore is the most boring painter ever,” Gerard says immediately. “That scene in the garage? What is that? How standard can you get?”

“Shut up,” Alicia yells. “Mikey, make him shut up with his cynicism! This movie is a work of art.”

“ _Boring_ art,” Gerard persists, and Mikey sighs in a long-suffering manner and takes him off speakerphone.

“Stop making Alicia sad, Gerard. And I think Jamia’s gonna make me hang up unless you shut up soon.”

“Wait, Jamia’s there? Is Frankie there, too?”

“Well, it’s not like we’re gonna watch _50 First Dates_ without Jamia, duh. And no, Frank’s not here, because like most normal people he doesn’t trail around after his ex. Please tell me that question doesn’t mean you’ve gone back to your Lyn-Z-Is-God days and taken to stalking her.”

Gerard is fairly sure he hears someone mutter, “oh Jesus, not again,” next to Mikey. His eyes narrow. “Ha fucking ha, assholes,” he says, and shifts on his seat. “Where _is_ Frank?”

“Dunno,” Mikey says, and it sounds casual, but Gerard can hear the thread of concern there. “We haven’t actually, uh, seen him in a while.”

“ _Dude_ —” Gerard begins, horrified, but Mikey interrupts.

“It’s not like he’s dead and we haven’t noticed, jeez! We get the odd text every now and then, and he sounds fine, but you know, he’s not picking up the phone or anything.”

“Have you been round to his place?” Gerard is having horrible visions of Frank being, like, held hostage in his own home or something, with _duct tape_ on his mouth, tied to a chair, while some evil dude in a trench coat with a gold filling impersonates him and sends out Frank-like text messages. Now he knows why Frank wasn’t picking up! This is horrible! Gerard is the _worst friend in the world_.

Mikey notices, he guesses, because his voice gets this note of warning in it, like when Gerard and Frank used to watch horror movies too late and Gerard had to check all the cupboards in the bus for giant mutant spiders/mad murderous killers/crazy zombie beasts before Frank would go to bed, and Mikey got woken up by all the banging and the squealing and the laughing. “ _Gee_ ,” he says, “Stop freaking out. He’s not in Jersey, he was in – Chicago, last time I checked? He’s travelling around a bit?”

“Oh,” Gerard says, and breathes out.

(The thing is, maybe he’s a little bit too used to knowing where Frank is. Frank’s unpredictable, and he’ll get the stupidest and the best ideas and want to go hurtling off into the unknown, want to talk someone into letting the bus go on a detour even though they really don’t have _time_ , want to come collect Gerard during one of their few breaks just so they can spend more time driving, down the coast or into the centre of the country. Gerard’s used to Frank doing things like this, used to the itch in Frank’s feet and the way he gets restless too quickly, only. Only Gerard guesses, normally, Frank would have taken him with him when he decided to go wandering.

Gerard is in Portland, though, and Frank is far, far away.)

 

(Or—

Not so far away. Maybe.

Somewhere, Mikey and Jamia are laughing.)

 

“Hi!” Frank says cheerily. “You’ve reached Frank! I’m not here right now, but if you leave a message I’ll call you back when I’m not doing interesting things anymore!”

“Why does everything you say on the phone have an exclamation mark?” Gerard grumbles, and hangs up.

 

Gerard goes out and reads the newspaper in Starbucks, flicks through to the review pages and wonders if maybe he can be bothered going to see a movie. He’s just considering maybe the new crazy monster one that even Mikey admitted was pretty scary when his phone buzzes against his thigh, once, twice. He fishes it out of his pocket and says, “H’lo?” into it.

“I don’t know how you do an answering machine message without exclamation marks, really,” Frank says thoughtfully. “It’s like, you wanna be all ‘hi! please leave me a message! I love you!’ because otherwise someone might be sad that, like, you’re too important to answer the phone to them.”

“Frank?” Gerard says a little stupidly.

“So this phone call is mostly to prove that I can _totally_ talk on the phone without exclamations, just not the answering machine. And the answering machine is for the _good_ of mankind – humankind, sorry, sorry. Also to say where the fuck are you, and why don’t you have a spare key in a pot plant or something? I’m fucking freezing.”

“Are you – wait,” Gerard says. He feels like he’s missing something important here. “Are you in _Portland_?”

“I’m outside your apartment, dude,” Frank tells him. “You’re somewhere, hopefully in Portland, presumably not in your apartment, or else you are and you’ve just gotten really deaf, because I’ve made like three of your neighbours hate me by now with all the yelling and stuff.”

“Okay,” Gerard says, and rubs his hand over his face in an attempt to get rid of the stupid grin he’s got at the moment. “Okay, I’m coming home, give me ten minutes.”

 

Gerard lets himself into his building and takes the elevator up to the third floor, and the doors open and the first thing his gaze goes to is the bundle of black on his doorstep next to a huge bag, tapping away on a phone.

“Frank?” he calls down the hallway, and he’s not sure why he sounds nervous.

The black thing looks up and drops the phone; Gerard has the time to register that Bundle of Black is beaming at him and then Frank charges down the hallway at him, slams him back against the wall and clings. Gerard’s arms come up automatically and he hugs back as tight as he can, bends his knees a little surreptitiously (Frank tends to get pissy if you remind him too often how short he is) so he can press his face into Frank’s neck and breathes in, sharply.

“I _missed_ you, motherfucker,” Frank says plaintively, and Gerard thinks about reminding him that Frank’s the one who took off across the country and refused to answer his phone or return messages properly.

All he says is, “Me, too.”

Frank pulls back enough that Gerard can see his face, Frank’s mouth wide and smiling, and something fierce and a little bit curious and a lot brave in his eyes, and then Frank lunges forward, off-balance and clumsy, and kisses Gerard, hard. They’ve kissed a lot, Gerard thinks a little bit numbly, but today Frank is pushing Gerard further back against the wall, and _oh, hi, Frank’s tongue!_ Gerard thinks, and Frank’s practically climbing him, hands scrabbling at Gerard’s shoulders, skin hot wherever Gerard touches him.

It takes Gerard a few moments to ascertain the real difference in this, and then he gets it: Frank is kissing him like he _means_ it.

If you had asked Gerard a few minutes ago, he would have stared and stuttered and probably have to go and spend a fortnight as a recluse before he could give you a definite answer on whether or not kissing Frank for real would actually be something he would be interested in doing, but right now all he knows is _yes_ and _want_ , and he battles with Frank’s jacket a little uselessly, pushes it up enough that he can slide his hands in under Frank’s shirt, across his warm, bare skin, and Frank shudders a little, and then laughs quietly, and Gerard can feel him smile against his mouth.

“God,” Frank breathes, and then pulls away. “So,” he says conversationally. “How are you?”

“Erm,” Gerard says. “Um. I’m – wait, what?”

Frank laughs his stupid, high-pitched giggle, and says, “Open your goddamn apartment, Gerard.”

Gerard would be annoyed except for the way Frank’s twisting his fingers in under Gerard’s waistband, brushing over the cool skin of his hip. “Yeah,” he says in a low voice, “Okay.”

 

They get inside and Gerard closes the door carefully, settling back into his skin, the grains of wood and plaster cool against his hand when he lingers at the door for a moment, his back to Frank. When he turns around, Frank’s watching him with a small, uncertain smile. His eyes are huge and hopeful.

“Well,” Gerard says as reasonably as he can, “That was unexpected.”

Frank huffs out a laugh. “I didn’t, uh, actually mean to do that. Really. Uh, sorry?”

Gerard makes a face. “I hate it when people say that,” he tells Frank, “Because now I’m all, well, _are_ you sorry? Like, was it a mistake? ‘Cos, Frankie, I’d never really – well, I mean, I’d _thought_ about it, but not properly and – and there was Lyn-Z and Jamia and then there _wasn’t_ and that was another whole fucked-up thing, especially for you, and you, uh. You kissed me back there, um.”

“I did,” Frank agrees. He pushes back off the wall and starts walking slowly, purposefully towards Gerard.

“Exactly,” Gerard says, and swallows maybe a little harder than is necessary. “So I guess what I’m asking, is, um, why?”

“Because I wanted to,” Frank says, and his voice is low and kind of warm and Gerard bites his lip.

“Oh. Okay,” he whispers. “Hey, you know, me too. So, uh, go for it?”

Frank looks at him incredulously and then bursts out laughing. Gerard waits as patiently as he can until he starts to get a little annoyed and then he hisses, “What? What?” which only makes Frank laugh harder.

This is not, Gerard thinks, going particularly well.

Finally, when it looks like Frank’s hysterics are not going to cease anytime soon, Gerard sighs and says, “Okay, so I’m gonna go make some coffee—” and Frank shuts up just like that, and rockets upward so quickly that Gerard’s not quite sure how the transition works between _space_ and then Frank suddenly kissing him again. His mouth is hot and firm and Gerard feels himself sink forward, lick into Frank’s mouth and hum, satisfied. Frank fists a hand in Gerard’s hair and it tugs a little, but not unpleasantly, and Gerard splays his hands over Frank’s shoulder blades, skims up to touch his face, brush his hair behind his ears, and the down until he hits Frank’s jeans.

Frank breathes out sharply through the corner of his mouth, and then he twists even closer and Gerard realises suddenly that Frank’s hard through his jeans, and Gerard is too, and in a sudden surge of movement he tugs Frank’s jacket away, pulls at the hem of his shirt, urging Frank to break away and lift his arms so Gerard can pull it off.

It’s only when Frank starts fumbling with Gerard’s jeans’ buttons that they both suddenly stop and stare at each other, breathing irregular. Frank’s mouth is red; Gerard guesses his must be the same. There’s an odd sound in his ears, like a plane taking off.

“Are we doing this, then?” Gerard says, and his voice sort of sounds too loud to himself. “Are we—”

“I think so,” Frank answers, voice hoarser than what Gerard’s used to. “I’ve kind of – maybe wanted to – for a while, anyway.”

Gerard looks down and smiles, suddenly shy. “I’ve had a crush on you for ages,” he admits, and Frank laughs stupidly.

“ _Crushes_ , Jesus. Crushes are nothing, man. I’ve had a crush on you since you asked me to join the band.”

“Wh – What?” Gerard says dumbly. “I don’t – _Frankie_ —”

“Are you assured of mutual attraction?” Frank asks. “Can I have sex with you now?”

“Uh,” Gerard says, grinning a little too widely. “Yes? I have a bedroom, if you’d like.”

“You clever thing,” Frank says cheerfully, grabbing his hand, and drags him there. It’s weird, for a moment, the way Frank knows the way; for some reason it makes Gerard think of when Jamia and Frank broke up. They weren’t even on tour, so Frank crashed with Gerard and Lyn-Z (Gerard thinks for a moment, counts up the days left and, yeah, thirteen months after that he and Lyn-Z would finish). Frank slept on the couch but when Lyn-Z left for her tour he appeared in Gerard’s doorway one night, looking miserable, and Gerard made room and he came and lay curled up, cheek against Gerard’s back. In the morning, Gerard brought him coffee and Frank smiled, a little bit.

It’s weird, to think of that and to have Frank _now_ , the same as he was and still irrevocably, almost crazily different, tugging him down the hall, but Gerard loses track of his thoughts pretty soon and stops worrying. They’re kissing by the time they hit the doorway and oh, Gerard thinks, _this_ is what he’s been waiting for, for a long, long time.

Frank pulls his jeans down as fast as he can and consequently trips on his way through the door, sprawling on the floor with his legs trapped in denim at his ankles. Gerard _cracks up_ , stumbling backwards to sit on his bed and lean uncomfortably on his hand, wheezing for breath. Frank glares at him from the floor and then gets on his knees, shuffles forward while Gerard peeks at him through the corner of his eye in the middle of his giggles. He stops laughing kind of abruptly when Frank’s hand lands on his knees and slide down swift and warm to his thighs, and he lets out a shuddering breath.

Frank laughs softly and then he’s undoing the buttons on Gerard’s fly, tugging them down past his knees and down to his ankles and then off. Gerard swallows again and keeps looking at him, Frank’s gaze dark and intent. Then Frank looks away and tugs Gerard’s underwear down in a matter of fact sort of manner and – with the same ridiculously brisk air – licks a line up his cock. Gerard shudders and twitches, hands landing sort of automatically in Frank’s hair, and Frank grins up at him and then goes down properly, mouth sliding hot and slick. Gerard moans and his hips jerk forward involuntarily; he mutters, “sorry, sorry,” rubbing his hand clumsily in apology over Frank’s head, but Frank only goes down further, until Gerard can feel the head of his cock against the back of Frank’s throat, and shit, that’s just – _shit_.

Gerard has a feeling this is not going to last very long at all, and then Frank does something disgusting and amazing with his tongue and Gerard finds himself making small, choking noises, hands tugging at Frank’s hair. The bedroom seems smaller than normal, the air warm and static-y.

“Fuck,” Gerard whispers, finally, and maybe there’s something there that lets Frank know because he pulls back a bit, enough that he doesn’t choke when Gerard’s hips snap forward one last time and he comes. Frank swallows it all, mostly neatly, and Gerard sinks back onto the bed, breathing off and erratic.

Frank’s gotten rid of his pants at some stage and he climbs up besides Gerard, kisses him sort of frantically, and Gerard can taste himself there, a strange, vaguely familiar thing (Gerard’s given blow jobs himself, though not nearly as frequently as the internet thinks, and he’s kind of surprised by how different it tastes). Frank doesn’t give him much time to think about things, though; he’s rubbing frantically up against Gerard, cock hard and leaking a little, and Gerard says, “Right, sorry.” He means to pay Frank back in kind, but he’s barely fisted over his cock once before Frank’s gasping and coming on Gerard’s stomach, eyes glazed, head tipping over to rest against Gerard’s shoulder.

They sprawl over each other like that for a while, warm and sticking together in some bits with sweat and come, and then Frank looks up and smiles kind of crookedly at Gerard. They climb up and under the covers. Gerard’s not in the least surprised (and more than a little glad) that Frank’s a cuddler, and he lies as close as Frank wants. They talk for a while, half-drowsy mumbles and more than a few exchanged “your _mom_ ’s”, and it’s surprisingly normal, really, the kind of conversation they would have had normally only… after sex. Huh.

Really, Gerard thinks he’s been doing admirably, and he should be commended or something for waiting a whole _nineteen minutes_ before clapping his hands and saying, “So! Coffee!”

Frank doesn’t appear to concur, sadly, because he stares at Gerard in disbelief for a second and then tries to beat him up with his pillow, and Gerard has to make a hasty and giggly escape to the kitchen.

He comes back with two cups of coffee, though, and Frank’s peeping up at him from under a pile of quilts (and Frank really gets cold too easily, it’s ridiculous) with Sex Hair and a smile lingering around the corner of his mouth, and then he says, grumpily, “There better not be five billion spoons of sugar in there, you freak.”

“Having five billion spoons of sugar in coffee is a _worthy lifestyle choice_ ,” Gerard protests, and Frank does that stupid happy grin again and rolls his eyes and reaches out, and Gerard thinks there’s a good chance that Frank’s reaching for the coffee and for Gerard, so he figures he’s forgiven.

Which is nice. Gerard doesn’t like it when Frank’s annoyed at him.

 

It’s surprising how quickly they settle into patterns. It’s not as though they don’t fight, because they do: constantly and over the stupidest things, and it always meanders its way into Frank storming out of the apartment and Gerard shoving Frank’s stuff into suitcases (Frank has not officially Moved In, but he’s found his own drawers pretty fast and his shampoo is always taking up too much room in the bathroom) and leaving them pointedly next to the door. And then they always end with Gerard making guilty eyes at Frank when he comes back in, and Frank sidling up to him and whispering, “Hey, hey, asshole,” while Gerard studiously ignores him, until finally his mouth twitches and Frank kisses him and they end up fucking somewhere instead of Working Out The Problem, which Gerard supposes is bad in some ways but really pretty awesome in others, and so he doesn’t mind too much.

It is surprising, though, because while Frank’s been a part of Gerard’s life for over a decade now, he’s obviously never been a part like this. But they come to terms with it ridiculously quickly, considering how nervous Gerard gets about some things, and soon Frank’s wandering through Gerard’s apartment shouting something about being out of rice, and Gerard bitches back that if Frank _wants_ it and Frank _uses_ it then Frank should _buy_ it, for fuck’s sake, and Frank says, haughtily, “It’s not my business to keep your household running, Gerard,” and Gerard throws something at him.

Frank takes up knitting again and creates huge, terribly-made rainbow scarves with knots in them and tangled ends and rows that sometimes manage to blend into each other, and three pairs of socks without heels, and one memorable and somewhat amazing tea cosy which they send to Mikey and Alicia as an anniversary gift and get soundly mocked for. Gerard paints more than he has in ages, although most of what he does ends up being of Frank. One week they end up falling asleep at nine in the middle of a cartoons marathon on the couch and Gerard wakes up with Frank’s feet in his face and they have to swear to each other that no one else will ever, ever find out how disgustingly domestic they’ve become.

Frank flies back to Jersey one weekend to get some of his guitars (he’d only been travelling with an acoustic). He returns with a pained, long-suffering expression and several boxes of things from Mikey and Alicia. They include: a polaroid camera (Alicia’s written _couple photos!!!!_ on a post-it note and stuck it on the side), a photo album with love hearts in garish pink on the cover, a guide to adoption (Gerard makes a horrified face and Frank cracks up laughing), a CD of romantic songs guaranteed to make your night a special one (“Oh, dude,” Frank says, looking delighted, “How many chicks across the states are getting off to this all on their own?” and Gerard tries to thwack him and deliver his tried and true Respect For All speech except Frank tackles him to stop it, and sticking his hand down Gerard’s pants is _clearly_ unfair play) and four scented candles.

“We’re those people everyone makes fun of at Christmas parties,” Gerard says dismally when they’ve finished unpacking the _Hamper of Lurve_ (which is what is scribbled in sharpie across the top of the box).

“Yup,” Frank says cheerfully, and sticks his hand down Gerard’s pants again.

Gerard’s still writing _The Umbrella Academy_ (although he’s got a year’s hiatus; he kind of wanted to give _every_ thing a break with the band). They don’t really need to find work, just yet at least, but Gerard finds an art shop tucked in a small alleyway that needs an extra hand, and it strikes his fancy. The people who shop there are mostly young kids in their late teens who are so hipster that they’d rather die than admit that they knew who My Chemical Romance were, and somehow Gerard manages to stay relatively hidden behind his usual unruly hair and a large pair of sunglasses (Frank cracks a great deal of progressively more terrible jokes about Gerard actually working for the CIA or something).

Gerard likes it, too, although he can’t imagine working there for long. The smell of paint is nice and it also means he and Frank aren’t hanging around in each other’s faces all day, which is what caused most of their fights when they were touring, and _still_ causes most of them now, and sometimes he’ll come home and Frank will be wearing an apron and a stupid grin and have cooked dinner.

He supposes they’re kind of cliché, really, and he’d try to care except for the fact that he’s kind of ridiculously happy. He’s not sure how he really enjoyed living on his own in the two months before Frank came, at all. Sometimes he has trouble remembering how he’d managed not to fall into a stupid depressive slump in an apartment that didn’t have drying tomato sauce on the counter and a stained copy of _The Asian Vegan Kitchen: Authentic and Appetizing Dishes from a Continent of Rich Flavours_ somehow stealing space from where Gerard keeps his horror movies, that didn’t have footprints in mud tracking across the carpet or strangely and quite disgustingly flavoured condoms (seriously, _banana split?_ Gerard has no idea where Frank finds this stuff) with a pink ribbon tied around them (curly on the ends, like Jamia taught him) left in places Gerard’s sure to find them, that didn’t have a bathroom that was taken up for at least half an hour every morning, and messages written in the steam on the mirror when Gerard goes in to brush his teeth (which sounds more romantic than it actually is; the messages vary from _hey dickface take a shower! ♥frank_ and _no seriously yr starting to smell! ♥frank_ ).

Also, one night Gerard’s cooking a strange stir-fry – which basically consists of him chopping vegetables haphazardly and throwing them into the wok Ray bought him ages ago with a bit too much oil and some leftover noodles from last night – and Frank leans in, face close, eyes dark and focused, and says conversationally, “I love you.”

Gerard’s mouth twitches a little at the corner and he looks at the floor, hair falling over his face in a somewhat useless attempt to hide the stupid smile he’s got going. Frank laughs softly and touches his cheek and then wanders off, and Gerard finishes cooking and serves it into two bowls and sets them on the table. He calls for Frank and when Frank comes back, with a warm, knowing look in his eyes, he claps his hands behind his back and says, “Kiss the cook!”

Frank rolls his eyes and huffs an impatient sigh and assumes a long-suffering air. He kisses Gerard firmly, mouth warm and lingering, and when he breaks away Gerard says, softly, “I love _you_.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Frank says, and they eat dinner peacefully, with lazy, slow conversation. Then they go to the couch and watch the movie that’s on TV, and Gerard ends up fucking Frank, slow and warm, neither of them in a hurry, and Gerard’s hands lingering on Frank’s skin.

 

Gerard comes home and Frank’s frowning in front of the computer, clicking rapidly through a series of windows. Gerard says, “Uh, hi?” and Frank turns around and beams.

“Hi!” he says. “This place is too small. I think we should buy a house.”

There is a slight pause. Then:

“… Okay?” Gerard says. Frank’s smile gets bigger.

 

In the next few days, Gerard closes all of the windows of Real Estate Frank’s got open; firmly bans Frank from trying to buy pot plants, let alone a house; buys _Home Buying For Dummies_ ; has two small panic attacks; rings Mikey in the middle of the night to squeak down the line at him; and is forced to confess that Lyn-Z pretty much bought the apartment he’s living in right now.

Then, he calms down and rings Brian.

Brian answers the phone with, “Gerard Way,” and he sounds pleased and wary at the same time, which would seem difficult to the casual observer but is in fact a tone that Brian Schecter perfected years ago. “How’s things?”

“Good,” Gerard says, firmly. “Me and Frank want to buy a house. Where do you buy a house?”

There’s a long pause, and then Brian says, “Okay, I’m coming down there. Sit tight.”

Gerard hangs up, and says with appropriate dramatics, “Everything is going to be fine.”

 

Buying a house – a proper _house_ , possibly in the countryside, and not just an apartment in the city – is possibly the most boring thing Gerard has ever done. He’s fairly sure that he and Frank have trooped out to see half of the country, from Oregon to Connecticut to Wisconsin, and when he sleeps he dreams of high ceilings and crappy paint jobs and termites. Gerard’s only thirty-five years old! This is horrific!

Eventually, though, Frank rings him at nine in the morning (what is this shit, seriously) from some hotel that is, apparently, vaguely near Jersey. Gerard had insisted on staying home for a week or so, until he could stop twitching when realtors sidled up to him with huge, fake smiles, and had sent Frank out in his stead.

Gerard picks up, and Frank says, too casual, “Hey, so I think you should come down here.”

“Huh?” Gerard has a legitimate right to be incoherent, okay, it’s _nine o’clock_ in the _morning_.

“I think,” Frank says, and there’s a smile in his voice, “That me n’ Brian’ve found you a house.”

“Oh,” Gerard says, and yawns, smiles.

 

Frank and Gerard’s house is kind of beautiful. And by ‘kind of’, Gerard means ‘intensely’ and he doesn’t stop making cooing noises for like the first three times he visits it (the fourth time, they’re moving in). It’s full of soft colours and big windows (“Dude,” Frank says, thoughtfully, when they look around the cream rooms upstairs, “You’re totally going to have to paint this shit, it’s too boring,”), and there’s a stretch of wilderness out the back (the real estate agent calls it “garden”), and an overgrown vegetable patch in the front.

Most of all, although Gerard won’t admit it aloud for fear of being mocked, he kind of loves how quiet and homey and lovely it is. There are cracked plastic window boxes on the windowsills from the last people who lived there (later Mikey will bring around packets of seeds to grow flowers in them); they buy some of the furniture, too, huge comfy arm chairs that clash horribly with Gerard’s sofa, and there’s a fireplace in the main downstairs living room. Gerard loves it on sight, and he can tell from the way Frank’s practically _vibrating_ with excitement, glancing at Gerard kind of anxiously like he’s worried Gerard won’t like it, that he does, too, and Gerard just nods kind of stupidly.

He doesn’t stop smiling for a week.

Then they move in.

 

It’s a big operation – Mikey, Alicia, Bob, Ray, Lyn-Z, Jamia, all of Fall Out Boy (Joe bearing hammers and a rather too excited glint in his eyes) and Thursday, Brian (of course), Gerard’s mom, Frank’s dad and grandfather, and – inexplicably – Ryan Ross all show up for Moving Day.

(At eleven AM, too, about an hour in, when Gerard’s just banged his shin rather impressively with the kitchen table, there’s a knock at the door and Gerard opens it to find Bert McCracken shifting uneasily from foot to foot on his doorstep, holding a sunflower.

Gerard says, “Uh.”

Jepha Howard sticks his head over Bert’s shoulder and beams in the way only he and Frankie can – they had a club, for a while, before everything screwed up – and says, “Hi, Gerard.”

Bert hands over the sunflower and says, in his stupid, scratchy voice, “I like your house.” He hesitates. “Did you need a hand with anything?”

“Bert,” Jepha says, with the same ridiculous grin, “is pretty good at unpacking.”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and smiles. “Yeah, I know.” Then Bert shoves the flower at him and Gerard pushes it aside and hugs him fiercely, and then Jepha, and then they go inside. Frank catches his eye, smiles at him.)

Ryan and Mikey float around being Generally Useless together, and talking about doing some strange, solo project together. Panic is still going strong, their fifth album being described as having a decided Sigur Rós influence, but Ryan and Mikey are plotting a concept _band_ , about The Torment of the Inner Soul Feat. Unicorns, and occasionally offering input re Feng Shui.

(“Dude,” Ryan says, looking horrified, “ _dude_ , you can’t put that mirror facing that way! Think of the bad harmony you’ll attract!” “… yeah!” adds Mikey).

Joe turns out to be, while frightening, strangely competent with a hammer and nails, and he and Pete erect shelves in the top rooms and a bathroom cabinet.

Bob, as is predicted, moves all the heavy furniture around, with Jamia’s help and Lyn-Z trailing behind and bossing. Alicia sneakily installs a cat-flap when Gerard isn’t looking (“No,” he hears Frank saying, horrified, “No fucking _way_ are we babysitting your pets when you’re on vacation,”), Ray proves to be – with help from Patrick – surprisingly adapt at assembling furniture from Ikea, and – once the closets have been put in the right rooms – Bert folds all of Gerard’s socks into pairs and sorts his underwear by colour (“You can do all that and _still_ refuse to do your own laundry?” Jepha asks with narrowed eyes).

Towards nine o’clock that night, Mikey – who has a fucking sixth sense for fast food – drives out and returns with pizza for everyone (vegan, meatatarian, all-seafood, no-seafood, and the obligatory one with _just_ pineapple and cheese) and they group in the living room and hold their breath while Bob and Jepha fiddle with the back of the TV until the DVD player flickers into life and the familiar theme tune of _Jaws_ graces the living room (“ _Dude_!” Ray shrieks, making a dive for a pillow to cover his eyes, “What the fuck, I thought we agreed this movie was officially _banned_ anytime I was in a ten mile radius!”, so they put _The Birds_ on instead, which keeps both Frank and Ryan happy, and is therefore an Admirable Feat of Moviemaking).

By midnight, most people have left, trickled out in dribs and drabs, and Gerard is fucking _exhausted_. He had actually planned on taking Frank upstairs and having some pretty mind-blowing sex on their First Night in their New House, but they end up standing on either side of the bed blinking at each other.

Eventually, Frank giggles, and then yawns. “Hey, man,” he says. “We’re gonna have forever, so.”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and feels the warmth of it spread up through him. He crawls into bed and Frank lies close next to him, kisses him lazy and sleepy in the soft darkness. Gerard whispers, “I love you,” and Frank says it back and he’s not really sure at what stage they fall asleep, only that he wakes up around midday and he’s not quite so exhausted, awake enough that he can wake Frank up and roll his hips against him before _coffee_ even.

They wander downstairs in search of food and caffeine and nicotine, and Frank sticks his hand under the waistband of Gerard’s boxers and they’re giggling a little by the time they reach the kitchen. Gerard curls his fingers in Frank’s hair and Frank kisses him, backs him up against the kitchen wall, and Gerard purrs, pushing his hips against him.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that in front of me,” Mikey says dolefully.

“ _Dude_!” Gerard shrieks, and he and Frank jump apart. Gerard runs a useless hand through his rumpled hair and Frank cracks up laughing. Mikey sighs heavily into his coffee, and wow, it turns out that a semi-boner can go away really fast. Seriously.

“Excuse me,” Gerard says politely. “I’m going to go into the lounge room to have a private hissy fit about the fact that I’ve only had a house for one day and my brother has already invaded it. When I return, I expect coffee.”

Then he goes into the lounge and accidentally steps on Ryan Ross’ face, which bites him, and this, Gerard thinks mournfully, is really not what he envisaged his first morning in his new house to be like.

 

By midday, though, Mikey’s cleared out and at two o’clock the doorbell rings right in the middle of Ryan eating his third bowl of Frank’s favourite cereal, and Gerard opens it to find Brendon Urie smiling at him.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m here to pick up my guitarist.”

“Oh, thank god,” Gerard whispers, which he has a feeling is rude, but he also has a feeling Frank’s about to attack Ryan in an attempt to reclaim his food.

“ _Ryan_!” Brendon bellows, and to Gerard’s surprise Ryan ambles up pretty quickly, and smiles when he sees Brendon.

“Hi,” he says.

“We’re going to let Frank and Gerard settle in now, okay?” Brendon says, firmly. “Also, Spencer’s pissed at you for borrowing his sneakers without asking.”

Ryan grins in a disturbingly wolfish manner. “Spencer shouldn’t have insulted those new pictures of Hobo,” he tells Brendon, “Or maybe I wouldn’t have helped William paint a mural in his new shoes before I came over here.”

Brendon pulls his lips together in a thin, trembling line to keep in laughter. “Alright, time to go face the music. Jon can only hold him back for so long.”

“I think,” Ryan says with dignity, “I might have some idea how to handle my best friend, thank you.”

“Uh,” Gerard says. “Bye?”

Brendon grins and waves a little bit and Ryan says, “Seeya,” and he and Brendon leave towards Brendon’s car, still arguing quietly about who is most suited to face Spencer Smith’s wrath, and Gerard thinks he hears Ryan mumble something about the joys of home ownership, but he can’t be sure. He turns away, closes the door, and suddenly Frank’s there, lounging against the wall, smiling at him.

“Hi,” Frank says.

“Honey, I’m home!” Gerard calls in an almost pantomimic deep voice, and Frank cracks up laughing. “So,” Gerard says, eventually, when Frank’s calmed down. “This is pretty cool.”

Frank laughs again, short this time, and he moves forwards with his eyes still full of laughter. “Yeah,” he breathes, “Pretty cool.” Then he kisses Gerard, warm and familiar, and Gerard sags back against the wall, thinks, _home_ , thinks, _yeah_ , thinks, _pretty cool_.

 

They spend a week or so unpacking the majority of their Stuff. This sounds simpler than it is, but really Frank and Gerard seem to have picked up way too much Stuff over the years. They spend a good deal of that time arguing – over whether that chair could go there, or whether they should maybe throw out the DVDs they had doubles of (“Dude!” Gerard all but shrieked when he spotted Frank sneakily trying to get rid of Gerard’s third copy of _Night of the Living Dead_ , “Frankie, what are you _doing_?”), or whether they have to keep (1) Frank’s ridiculous and _annoying_ MCR action figures, which have been bedazzled and given pink highlights with paint, that he insists are his favourite things ever or (2) Gerard’s hundred or so creepy-ass Joan of Arc statuettes.

Frank decides he wants some truly hideous orange floral curtains for the kitchen that hurt Gerard’s soul just to look at in the shops. He has to send for Jamia to come down and help him talk Frank out of it. Gerard decides he _likes_ their disgusting attic, goddamnit, and refuses to clean out the cobwebs and spiders because they lend “atmosphere” to the house. Frank has to wait for Gerard to go get their last things from the Portland apartment before it’s sold so he can call Bob and Ray down to help him clear it out (and Gerard sits up there mourning for like an _hour_ after he discovers the travesty Frank’s inflicted upon a perfectly good attic).

But really, it’s kind of lovely, and after about five minutes of bitching to Mikey every now and again Gerard drifts on to telling him about other things. He tells him how Frank is trying to get the vegetable garden growing properly again, coming in dirty and scratched and bleeding; how Gerard found these awesome, cracked old plates in a thrift store in the next town and painted them with superheroes; how Frank bought His and His towels as an incentive for Gerard to shower (it didn’t work, Gerard informs Mikey with great glee); how they had a blackout the other evening and Frank ran around lighting candles and the house seemed smaller and warmer and the country outside louder than normal.

Gerard spends a week in the top rooms, painting huge murals on the walls while Frank watches and brings food and coaxes him to bed on occasion. The bathroom has dark caves, with the ocean roaring at the distant mouth of one and unsettling shadows; the spare bedroom a green, sprawling wilderness with ghostly shapes, heads bowed. The hallway is a parade of the doomed; horrible monsters and tragic figures stretching around the corner and down next to the staircase.

He claims a room downstairs, too, as his studio, and spends hours painting that. It’s a collage of things and people, in the end: Mikey’s tall, dark form staring out a window into red-clouded skies, a tree that looks suspiciously like Ray, Frankie shredding the guitar, Bob plucking a single white feather away from his shoulder. The ceiling is a sky, half in bright daylight, half fading into night. There are birds sweeping across it, away from the darkness (although the birds have leathery wings; it’s still _Gerard_ ).

After two months, the house is clean and warm and inviting, perfectly inhabitable; after three months, Gerard trips on a tangle of cords leading to an amp, there are paint stains on every pair of pajamas he owns, and he goes downstairs to find the espresso machine bubbling over and Stuff strewn over ever possible surface, and it’s _theirs_.

 

From _A List of Rules in the Iero-Way Household_ , as of the 13th September, 2013:

1\. There will be no waking Gerard up in order to fuck. No matter how nice aforementioned fucking is, it will Not Be Worth It in the end. Whining as a result of breaking this rule is to be expected.  
2\. There will be no babysitting pets. No means _never ever ever_ , and Gerard must learn to stand up to his little brother’s puppyface.  
3\. Baths and showers are an enjoyable habit, and not just for girls and Frank. Gerard should feel free to use the facilities in the bathroom for more than just a place to scatter make-up in as often as he likes!  
4\. Frank Iero is a neat freak. Gerard Way respects and tolerates this decision on Frank’s behalf, but will not allow it to be forced upon him.  
5\. There must always be coffee brewing.  
6\. The view from the roof is not, actually, that much better than the one from safe ground, and Gerard will probably flail around and almost fall off a few times. Best to leave it alone.  
7\. Cuddling is acceptable at all times. The fucking _freezing_ cold hands and feet of one Mr Way are not.

 

It’s two days after Thanksgiving, and Mikey’s finally left, along with the rest of the gang who showed up on their doorstep clutching every possible food for vegans and non-vegans alike. Gerard’s tired. He can feel a headache settling in, tight around his eye; he makes himself coffee, huddles up in a blanket in a dark room, and decides to finally watch the first season of The Sopranos, just to stop Bob bugging him about it.

He’s halfway through the third episode when Frank bangs in and turns on the light. “Dude,” he says, “What the fuck, you’re sitting in the dark?”

Gerard squints at him. “I’m watching something. Turn the light back off.”

“Nah,” Frank says, easily, “You’re going to turn into a real vampire one of these days, and I bet it won’t be as cool as you think.” He wanders in and offers Gerard some chips. Gerard shakes his head, mouth tight; he can feel useless, directionless anger building up inside him. “What are you watching?” Frank asks, and then distracts himself and brightly announces, “Oooh, I know, let’s watch the, uh, the whatsitcalled Ray said was—”

“Frank,” Gerard says, tightly, “I don’t _want_ to watch whatever the fuck Ray recommended. The house has been full of people for _three days_. I want to watch The Sopranos, by my _self_!”

Frank narrows his eyes. “It’s _my_ house too, Gerard—”

“Yeah! So why don’t you go find your own corner of it to be annoying in!”

“Oh, jesus,” Frank says, and there’s a horrible, sneering tone in his voice that Gerard’s never heard before. “I’m sorry we can’t all be so fucking up ourselves with our _sensitivity_ and _creativity_ that we don’t actually have that _much_ of in the first place—”

“Shut up,” Gerard snaps. “God, what are you, fucking _five_?”

Frank looks at him, face white and furious. “Fuck you,” he says, quietly, tiredly, and then turns around, slams the door behind him.

 

This is something new, then, strange and uncertain: Frank sleeping in the spare room, and doing things on the other side of the house from Gerard all day – harsh, angry riffs exploding from his room – or going out, taking his car and driving somewhere, coming back late at night with pointed clattering noises.

Gerard locks himself in the studio most of the time and paints huge, angry canvases of red and purple and stars exploding; nights of bad things, monsters and death and sadness stalking city streets. He tries to start working on the outlines for the new issues of The Umbrella Academy, even though they’re not due until early next year, but he can’t get it to work properly and ends up frustrated and angrier than before.

He avoids Frank, except for the occasional mini-blow-up; a smashing sound from the kitchen has Gerard coming out to see what it was, only to find Frank standing looking viciously cheerful in the wreckage of Gerard’s three favourite mugs and two of the superhero plates (“Ooops,” Frank says, eyes dark, and Gerard says, “Mother _fucker_ ,”), or a sudden storm of harsh words and slammed doors. Buying a house together was a big mistake, he thinks. Being with _Frank_ is a big mistake, because Frank is a selfish asshole who doesn’t know when to leave things _alone_.

One morning Gerard comes down and Frank’s got three suitcases standing by the door, neatly packed, waiting. Fucking _good on him_ , Gerard thinks awfully, and disappears back into his studio.

Upstairs, he can hear Frank moving around with small, concentrated movements; he knows that if he was there, he’d be able to see how furious Frank was just from the tight, angry movements; he knows that Frank has his hands clenched in fists and his hair is standing up slightly rumpled from shoving his fingers through it.

Gerard paints.

 

Somehow, though, somehow – Gerard stops painting the vague idea he’d had in mind, something about an alleyway and a weird, wraith-girl walking down it, and a yellow daisy growing in the corner. He switches to charcoal, and the biggest paper he can find. He moves easily, and it’s the most peaceful he’s felt in a while, sketching out shapes and shadows and the curve of a face, and he gets halfway through feeling calm before he realises he’s drawing Frank.

He’s angry (again) for a split second before he thinks, suddenly, that he’s angry now because he’s _supposed_ to be, and really he’s just tired, and kind of sad. He finishes the drawing easily; Frank half-turned away, shoulders hunched up tensely and peering back, behind, with dark eyes and a harsh line of a mouth. Gerard rolls his eyes at himself and then shifts from foot to foot uncertainly, ends up writing _i hate it so much when you’re angry at me_ in lieu of a signature at the bottom of the page.

Then he bangs out of the house and hops in his car, drives out and away from the house, towards the horizon.

 

By the time he turns around for home, it’s getting dark; by the time he _gets_ home it’s night, and the stars are out. Gerard’s still not used to seeing the stars properly, tucked away from the smog of the city. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and hums to himself absently, even as he’s wondering uneasily, something tight and awful in his chest, if Frank’s gone, taken his suitcases and left.

Gerard pulls into the driveway. It’s dark.

When he gets out, a shadow on the front steps stands up, walks towards him. Gerard scratches at his head uncertainly and Frank tilts his head, scrunches his mouth up to one side. Finally, Frank says, voice gentle, “You should just say sorry next time, asshole.”

“Who’s sorry?” Gerard says brazenly, but Frank steps up and tugs his head down and kisses him, and Gerard kisses back and mumbles, “I am, I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Frank says. “Me, too. I liked your picture.”

Gerard narrows his eyes. “You went into my studio?”

Frank sighs, loudly. “Oh, come on, don’t pick _another_ fight – yeah, I was gonna, I don’t know, trash it or something.” He giggles, and Gerard laughs too, because he knows Frank wouldn’t be able to do something like that. “Anyway. I saw it and I’ve been waiting out for you and it’s fucking freezing, man, where the hell did you go?”

“Dunno,” Gerard breathes, and slides his hands under Frank’s shirt, licks into his mouth. “I’m back now.”

“Yeah,” Frank whispers, and they barely make it to their bedroom before they hit the floor, Frank’s hands scrabbling at Gerard’s skin, Gerard making small, broken noises against his mouth.

 

The next morning, down the bottom of the house, the ancient answering machine crackles into life.

 _Hi!_ Frank’s voice says, impossibly cheery. _You’ve called Gerard and Frank! We’re not here right now, but if you leave a message, we’ll get back to you ay ess ay pee!_

 _Exclamation mark!_ Gerard’s voice says, sounding fainter, and there’s a giggle.

“Guys?” the answering machine says. “Guys, it’s Ray? Pick up?”

Upstairs, in the warm, dark room, the first November rain hitting the windows, Frank and Gerard sleep on.

“You losers never answer the phone,” Ray’s voice grumbles, and then there is a click, and then there is silence.


End file.
